Violet didn’t know what to say. But she wanted to hear more . . . about Rafe. About his past.
“A few months after the funeral, he called me in the middle of the night . . . asking for my help. I already knew he’d run away; my aunt had called in a panic when she’d found his note, so I wasn’t surprised to hear his voice on the other end of the line. In fact, I’d been waiting for it.” Again, that wistful smile touched her lips, and her eyes shimmered a deep, brilliant sapphire. “But boy oh boy, did he surprise me when he started talking, telling me what he could do, telling me where he was and what had happened. I traced the call, and had the local police on their way before we’d even hung up.”
“What . . .” Violet hesitated, not sure she was supposed to ask. “What was it? What did he find?”
Biting her lip, Sara’s eyes grew distant as she recalled that night. “That’s the thing, it wasn’t what he’d found, Violet. It was who he’d found. And Rafe hasn’t been the same since.” Her eyes sharpened again. “At least until he met you.”
Violet shook her head, a deep frown furrowing her expression. Her eyes were wide and her heart beat painfully within her chest. She couldn’t find her voice, but she could see from the uncertainty on Sara’s face that she wasn’t sure if she should continue.
Sara’s lips curved into a tight smile, but her eyes remained sad and faraway. “Rafe had a dream about his girlfriend, a girl whose family—her mother and her little brother—had been on the run from her abusive father. At the time I didn’t know anything about his dreams, that sometimes they were more than just dreams. I mean, really, dreams are just dreams, right? But not Rafe’s. Did you know that about him? That he gets flashes, he calls them, of the future? That he dreams things that haven’t happened yet?”
Violet shook her head, not really sure how to answer. Sam had explained a little, but not about the dreams.
Sara’s hand smoothed her hair. “He understood what the dream really meant. He knew that his girlfriend was in danger, that her father had found them, and he decided to go after her . . . to try to save her, I guess.” Her face crumpled. “But when he got there, it was already too late. The girl’s father had slaughtered them all and had already taken off.”
“Kind of like what James Nua had done to his family,” Violet whispered.
“Precisely. That’s why I was so worried about Rafe when we went to the station that day. Seeing James Nua, and knowing what he’d done, was harder on him than he’d ever admit.”
Violet understood in a way she hadn’t before.
“Anyway, that night, when the police arrived and found Rafe there, he was the only one still alive. He was taken into custody and questioned, but never formally accused. He didn’t tell them that because of his flashes, he knew where the father was hiding out. He waited until I got there and told me instead.
“And he was right. The bastard was exactly where Rafe said he’d be, drunk out of his mind in a cheap motel room off the interstate. He never even bothered cleaning up . . . he was still covered in their blood.”
Violet shifted nervously, trying to tell herself it didn’t matter but unable to stop the question from bubbling up in her throat nonetheless. “What was her name?” she asked. “His girlfriend . . . what was her name?”
Sara hesitated, her face screwing into a mask of uncertainty. “I’ve already told you too much. I doubt Rafe would want me talking about any of this.”
But Violet already knew. “It was Sophie, wasn’t it?”
“How did you . . . ?” But Sara just shook her head, her voice distant. “He hasn’t been the same since.”
No wonder Rafe had sounded so hopeful when he’d called her Sophie at the hospital. Violet’s heart ached for him as she blinked back her own tears now.
First his mother. And then Sophie.
Sara sighed heavily. “After all that, I decided it was time for Rafe to come live with me so I could make up for being such a crappy big sister. At the time, I’d been working sixteen-hour days and practically sleeping at the office. With Rafe there, I started bringing my work files home so I could be there . . . with him. That was when I discovered how useful his ability could be.” She sighed as she recounted the details. “I woke up one night when I couldn’t sleep and caught Rafe going through my folders. At first I was pissed. Those were confidential FBI files, he had no business looking at them.” Her bemused smile was at odds with her words. “When I yelled at him, Rafe just gave me that look of his—the one that says: Relax, I’ve got this under control.”
Violet smiled too. She knew the look, Rafe’s signature expression.
“And then, just like that, he told me who did it. He knew who exactly the killer was and how he’d done it.” She chuckled derisively. “I’d spent the past four months of my life poring over the evidence and questioning witnesses again and again and again. And there he was, my baby brother, looking me right in the eye and telling me where to find the murder weapon.”
Violet let out her breath; her chest ached from holding it. “He had another dream?”
Sara shook her head. “No. That’s the thing; it wasn’t a dream this time. He knew from just thumbing through the personal photos we’d collected from the victim’s home. From just . . . touching them. That was when I started to dig deeper, investigating what he could do. I realized that his dreams or waking visions—or whatever you want to call them—are triggered by touch. It was the first time I’d ever heard the word psychometry. With his girlfriend, she’d left him one of those plastic troll dolls, the ones with the fuzzy hair—kind of a memento, I suppose. And because he’d been holding it and because it had been hers, Rafe dreamed about her. But he doesn’t have to be sleeping to have a premonition. I’m still learning the ins and outs, but it seems like everyone’s gifts work differently.”